2 November 2014
The M of L
So, what were you saying the meaning of life is?
It's a single star we find at the bottom of a well of cloud. It's the hiss and crackle of Diwali fireworks and the dog in every room, barking. It's a night train, brightly lit and empty, picking up speed. It's a hawk and then another, hovering beside the road in a blustery wind. It's the one wind turbine that isn't turning. It's a face you'd like to see, if they'd only turn around. It's the sound of a movie playing in another room, your younger days. It's the sound of our ten feet kicking through leaves, the four of us. It's a pink glove reaching out from a corner heap of windblown leaves. It's dusk descending and the dog catching sight of his ghost self in the glass. It's an owl, white shriek from the pitch-black woods. It's whatever's in the torch beam and little else. It's the long black hair of night, with three sounds braided together: wind, rain and hillside stream. It's the braying of a donkey somewhere on the opposite hillside. It's autumn sunlight stumbling down a vertiginous wooded slope. It's a man in a red plaid jacket collecting eggs, carrying them back in the crook of his arm. It's the whole mill town deep in shadow, sunlight on the surrounding hills. It's a stone buddha cross-legged on the canal boat foredeck. It's a few quiet moments at the grave of someone you loved.
(My "It's-ku" from the last few days, in and around Hebden Bridge, gathered.)